


Threadbare Steele

by RSteele82



Category: Remington Steele (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 08:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14397774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RSteele82/pseuds/RSteele82
Summary: At the request of a reader: Threadbare Steele takes us through Steele Threads from both Laura and Remington's perspectives... with a twist not in the episode.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

_Remington_

Chapter 1: Sam I am

I'm beginning to think this latest case has its distinct advantages. Laura has me posing as a buyer for an exclusive group of stores, in town to see the latest lines, to spread about a bit of money. I don't think my rendition of Sam St. Cloud from Birmingham has impressed her all that much, although it amuses me. Instead of portraying a stiff backed, proper Brit here to acquire goods for elitist customers, I've decided to go quite the opposite direction. Sam St. Cloud is obnoxious with a bend towards degenerate in the way he freely fondles the models, and would be generally despised if not for the money he's spreading around freely. The perfect cover, should you ask me, for no one would suspect this chump capable of anything more than drawing the ire of one of those models and taking a palm to his face for his troubles.

But, as the saying goes… _When in Rome_ , I think to myself, as I see my partner and the object of my every fantasy these days, leaning against the accessory board, her bottom pushed out enticingly behind her. A bottom currently covered in form fitting black satin, reminiscent of the lingerie I pray I might one day be the benefactor of slowly easing off her lovely small frame. Unable to resist – and, might I point out, quite in character with my cover – I caress the gentle curve of her hip, trace the curve of a cheek of her delightfully firm bun, then dare to take it one step further, palming her bottom.

Oops. I'll pay for that for certain, should the look she's just given me be any indication. Perhaps not one of my wisest decisions, ranking up there with my foolishness when I gave a pair of leather britches a whirl – a bad, bad idea, I assure you of that – and when I decided to take on the bugger DesCoine on my own. She'll likely freeze me out for a week for my cheekiness, but the more I think on it, the more I believe it's worth it. I mean, _this is Laura_ , and it was her satin clad hip and bum beneath _my hand_. Given that's the closest I've ever gotten to second base with the woman… Yes, a week of the cold shoulder is more than worth it given I've the memory of my transgression to keep me warm.

But I better not press my luck.

In keeping with my character, I give a healthy smack to a couple of bottoms, bottoms not belonging to my lovely partner, but I do so enjoy when Laura's jealousy flares. There is so much between us undecided, that this is one of those rare times that I know, without a doubt, that somewhere in that complicated mind of hers, she cares enough that she wishes me to buy exclusively from her. Given there are days I get the impression she'd rather me go off and buy from someone else, rather than she risking the bank on a possibly defective good, my ego can use a bit of a plumping, as that little display of jealousy has done.

My God, I adore every insecure, frustrating, temperamental, demanding, overbearing inch of the woman. Felicia had once accused me of being smitten. Smitten has long gone by the wayside. Positively gobsmacked, that's what I am. And God knows, there are days that I wish I weren't. Life was so much less complicated when this woman wasn't at the center of my every dream, my life. But, it is what it is. Even if I can't admit it to her, I won't lie to myself: I've fallen and fallen hard. Love has brought kingdoms and kings to ruin. I'm no less susceptible, it seems.

Ah, damn. I've been caught with my hand in that proverbial cookie jar, given the way she'd suddenly pulled back her shoulders and straightened to her full height. But, again I might ask: What's a man to do? Without a second thought, Laura's stripped out of the dress and now stands beside me in nothing but a scrap of black lace and satin and a pair of hose, offering an irresistible view of those tantalizing freckles sprinkles over shoulders and chest, not to mention the possibility of glancing a bit of a breast if she'd move just so. Do I feel a bit like the pervert my alter ego St. Cloud is? Of course, I do. But I'm desperate and my eyes have a mind of their own.

A week did I say? More likely a bloody month at this point. Yes, being St. Cloud has certain benefits, but I need to shed this role before the only company I have in the weeks ahead are my fantasies and cold showers.

Of course, a good suspect to give chase to, forcing me out of this den of inequity would suffice, and that's precisely what I get. I gladly give chase, hoping against hope that Laura will grant me absolution sooner than later should I manage to corral the design defalcator.

Alright, mate, it's you and me… and I won't be going back to Laura empty handed, not today.


	2. Just Flesh

 

Either all the twists this case has taken have put Laura in a supremely good mood, or her aching feet have made her forget my transgressions all together, for I'm currently ensconced in her bedroom, sitting at the end of her bed while she lays prone upon it, massaging her foot. Rarely does she allow me to do so much as this, being the independent sort, determined to rely on no one but herself. I do wish she'd lean on me more often, but I'd be sorely disappointed if I got my hopes up.

As it is, each time she rejects my concern, thunders at me for protecting her, or pushes me away when she's tempted to turn to me, I take comfort in those days after her house was blown to bits by that sodding bastard, Veckmer, and his gang. It's both the last time and the most critical time that she willingly allowed me to be for her the strength she needed to carry forth. If I hadn't known before that she'd captured my heart, I'd have to be certifiably nutters not to know after, for what sane man turns down the woman he desires more than any other, ever has another? I'd been forced to face the truth: One night would never be enough with her and I was unwilling to risk it being just that.

She sits up, finally done mulling whatever it is that is troubling her. That it appears she intends to share it with me, has guaranteed she'll have a captive audience.

"You know, if Lila has done something desperate, I think I'd understand it. That meat line at Julian's would drive any woman to distraction."

"From sore feet?" I wonder, patting the bottom of her foot for emphasis.

"Sore hearts. Sore souls. Man is seen as many things. Doer, thinker. Woman? Bottom line?" She winces as she pulls her foot from my hands. "Flesh."

I try not to flinch at her words, for they bring with them a great deal of guilt. After all, hadn't I been one of the culprits, using my role to steal a few moments of intimacy she'd not granted me, but I'd claimed for myself, in disregard of how she might feel? I wonder if I will ever truly become the mythical man she conjured up in her mind, or if I will always struggle against the man I once was.

She stands, facing away from me as she speaks. It's never easy for her admitting her frailties as a human being. "Nobody told you what to be when you grew up. You're a man. You smoke cigars." She laughs, though it rings hollow, sad as it is. "They used to come by the office in droves. 'Steal away with me, Laura.' 'How's Palm Springs sound, Laura?' But handle a case? 'Better let Mr. Steele do _that_ , Laura.'"

Ah, Laura, there's not a person that's met you who's walked away after believing you are only flesh. At least not anyone who uses their brain rather than their todger, that is. The intelligence that glimmered in her eyes was one of the first things that had held me enraptured by her from the moment we met. And watching as that amazing mind of hers dismantles a case piece-by-piece until she finds the answer she's seeking? I marvel at it, to this day.

"But you didn't, did you? Thank the Lord, or we'd both be scrounging or the rent," I remind her. Standing, I take my chances she'll take the support I wish to offer. I wrap her my arms from behind, and am relieved to find that instead of pulling away, her hands clutch at my arms, keeping them where they are. "No one's ever going to treat you as just flesh. Flesh, yes. But never _just_ flesh."

Unable to resist, I bend my head down and kiss her. I know a moment of unadulterated joy when she not only turns her head to me so I might deepen the kiss, but opens her mouth willingly. Mary, Mother and Joseph, if Bulletz wasn't just down below, I'd be inching backwards towards the bed, futilely hoping that this might at last be the moment.

But, as my luck holds whenever I'm making any leeway with my Miss Holt, we're interrupted. Not by a door swinging open, the phone ringing or bullets flying. Yet a Bulletz is most certainly involved, seeking this inopportune moment to announce he's been raiding the fridge. Neither of us particularly prone to public displays of affection, nor inclined to announce our personal involvement to the world at large, Laura and I jump away from one another as though struck by a bolt of lightning, she flushing, and much to my mortification, I believe I may well be doing precisely that as well.

The moment irrefutably ruined, we part company and I go downstairs where I try to find the courage to tell Bulletz his baby brother is more than likely a murderer.


	3. Loss

It's been a long evening. Laura and I parted company, each of us with our own suspect to schmooze or break, whichever we determined the situation required. Bulletz and I caught Lila, while Laura drew Carl. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now. I've known enough Carl's in my day, to spot bad news from miles away. And that chap? He's nothing but trouble. Laura would be alone with him and should things turn out badly – she'd skewer me for even thinking this, I know – she'd be unable to overpower the man and get away. Then, of course, there is the other matter: even if things remain sedate, I imagine she'll spend a good deal of the evening being pawed by the bloke. For a woman already struggling today with the feeling she's being viewed as 'just flesh' because of the role she's undertaken for this case, such actions on this blighter's part will only leave her feeling all the worse. And, as selfish as it is, knowing I will be the one made to pay for _him_ only confirming her feeling of being 'just flesh,' I'm more than a little put out.

Not to mention, the simple fact that this is Laura. The Laura I'd claimed for myself way back when that cretin Creighton Phillips was sniffing about her skirts. Not, of course, that I'd ever say those words around her, as I'm fairly certain she'd lob off my head, _after_ making my ears ring for an hour with a stern and shrill lecture on how she is _no man's property_. But still… I'd stopped my dalliances then and there, in part because she'd made it very clear she wouldn't be waiting at home while I was out catting about, goose and gander, and all that. And the idea of another man putting his hands on her? Inconceivable. Unacceptable. Out of the question. The very idea of another man having her was enough to drive me stark raving mad, even then.

As for the other reason? It really was quite simple: I longed to have her in my bed and, once I set my mind to it, no one else would do. I've never known another woman with her fire, intelligence, quick wit, unflinching demands, acerbic tongue all countered with a lyrical voice, a musical laugh, a gentle hand and a bruised heart. No other woman has a smattering of enticing freckles across their delicate features or deep brown eyes that burn with anger, dance with joy and glimmer with desire. There is no woman who fits so perfectly in my arms when we dance, lay together watching a movie… or kiss. There is no other woman who tastes so rich and sweet at once, who smells like sunshine, grass and honeysuckle. The simple fact is: Why would I risk the woman I want, when no other woman will do?

Which is what brings me to the loft at this time of the evening. By the time Bulletz and I had wined and dined Lila, broken her, then drug her across town to view the body of Mark Pryne, which, of course, had gone missing, it was well after ten. Still, I need to check in with Laura, in person, to see how she'd fared… and I don't mean the case. And, I vow to myself, it the bugger did anything untoward against her, the last thing he'll be worrying about is whatever it is he's really after.

I've just stepped onto the landing of Laura's floor when a gunshot rings out. My heart stops for a millisecond then plunges to my toes. I don't recall ordering my feet to move, but I'm running down the hallway and duck into her loft. I've only an instant to process Laura, my lovely Laura, lying face down on the stairs to her bedroom and that sodding bastard standing over her, gun in hand, before he turns and fires at me. Instinct takes over, and I dive to the floor then roll towards the protection the couch affords me.

But it doesn't matter. For when I take to my feet after the murderous fiend flees, I see her, there, on the stairs, the hole in her back from the bullet evident from halfway across the loft. I draw in a shuddering breath, and stumble to her. Something in me just snaps, breaks and I know will never be the same again. I've lost her before I've ever truly had the chance to love her. That it is my own doing takes me to my knees. It is my own fears that have kept me from telling her I love her… am _in love_ with her… and I plan to _never leave her_. And now it is too late.

The first, painful sob is wrenched from my gut, and my tears are flowing freely by the time I crawl up the three stairs and stretch my body over that of my precious Laura's. I know I'm speaking with her, but I've no idea what it is I'm saying, far too lost in the grief I feel as though I'm drowning in.

" _There's so many things I wanted to tell you."_

I bury my face in her hair, the familiar smell that once made my body hum, is now like a razor sharp edge, cutting deep into my heart, leaving it in tatters. Oh, how I've longed to taste that smell against my tongue, to have it surround me as I fall to sleep at night, to wake to it in the morning. A smell so pure, so clean and crisp… just like my Laura.

" _There's so many things I should have told you."_

The regrets, I've no doubt they will follow me for a lifetime, as will the loss of her. After years of belonging nowhere, not _wishing_ to belong anywhere, it was here that I had found my home. Because of her. Not only because of the life she'd handed me then had challenged me to earn, but merely because of her presence. Long ago I'd stopped pretending it wasn't she that kept me anchored here. I should have told her. She should have known how much I cherish her, how bloody thankful I am that our paths crossed, and for once in my bloody life I chose to take a risk on another person.

" _I'm sorry."_

I wish she were here so I could apologize for being such a bloody coward. She's had the backbone to admit her fears to me, even if she did so whilst giving me the what for most of the times. I'd never had the fortitude to do the same. I never told her that I'd spent a decade of my childhood hoping, wishing that the _next_ family that would be the one who'd wish to keep me. That just when I'd settled in, had dared to believe, and would be so bloody damned thankful that at last, I'd found a family to love me, I'd be sent on my way again. What if I give her those words, and she dismisses them as folly, or worse, finally realizes that she deserves far, far better than I? The fear is paralyzing, it is. That she might be the next person who sends me on my way.

" _Oh, come here. Come. Come here."_

I gather her to me, pressing my face into her hair. I need to keep her near to me. I know I should leave her, call the police. But I can't. I can't let her go. The woman is forever harping about how she can fend for herself, needs no one, yet the truth is she is terrified she'll get used to someone being there, and then will find herself alone. It's at the heart of why she pushes me away so damned hard, and it is a feeling I well understand: being found not to be enough.

"Oh, baby."

I'm not inclined towards using endearments with the women I see, as it tends to give them the wrong idea… that I'm in it for anything more than a one night stand, maybe an occasional weekend. Yet, my dreams of late have been filled with visions of me whispering the endearment into her ear as we make love. She'd despise this one, believing it reduces a woman to a subservient role, and I've absolutely no idea why, of all the endearments, it's this one that has stuck in my dreams. Perhaps, I consider, that the fact it would irritate Laura holds a charm of its own, as I do so enjoy getting that magnificent temper of hers to flare. Maybe it speaks to my instinct to protect her, to keep her safe, for me, if not herself.

I've no idea how I'm to do this without her. I press kisses against her face, her head. Certainly, my days as Remington Steele have come to an end in the harshest of manners possible, for there is no Remington Steele without Laura Holt. And I don't mean simply the day-to-day operations of the Agency, or even solving cases. It is by her hand that I've become the man I now am. I have a life with purpose, respect. But I've stayed not for the job or the lifestyle, as much as I enjoy both. I've stayed for the woman. The thought of remaining here, always waiting, in some part of my mind, for her to appear, would be akin to torture. No—

"I hate to interrupt…"

And just like that my world wobbles then rights itself. She's here, she's alive. I'm not quite sure how, but she figures out the answer soon enough.

And then she's off…

While I remain sitting here trying to pull myself back together again.


	4. Sniffing About

Hmmmm. I'm not sure what to make of this Milton chap. That he wishes Laura were a cherry at the top of his sundae is clear enough, but I can't quite figure out what he is to her. Old friend? Old lover? If so, _how_ old? A man currently in pursuit of her? Whatever it is, it's clear he's labeled me as competition, the way he's managed to wedge himself between Laura and I, relegating Bulletz and I to hold up the wall.

Whatever it is, I don't like it. Not at all. Laura's not alone with the healthy stroke of jealousy that flows through her veins when it comes to me. I'm feeling a good bit of that myself at the moment.

"Not only gobbled up, Binky…"

_Binky!?_ I turn to Bulletz and mouth the name, he seeming as perplexed as I.

That seals it. I step to Laura and bend my head down so my lips are near her ear.

" _Binky_?"

"You have your secrets and I have mine," she answers, a bit too smugly for my taste.

"Well, I'm afraid someone else has theirs," I answer, but don't add, _And I don't like it. I don't like it a'tall._ Instead, I arbitrarily decide our time here has expired. "Milton, old chap, that was most enlightening. Thank you very much." I offer my hand as she watches on, bemused. At least the bloke knows when he's being dismissed and returns to his lab, but not before clasping her hand between his.

Nope, I don't like it a'tall. There have been too many blokes sniffing about my Miss Holt these hours. The question is: what am I going to do about it?


	5. No Regrets

With the case wrapped up, Carl in jail and Francois Periot dead, Laura drops me at my flat. Our good evenings are far too brief, and I manage nothing more than a brief touch of my lips to hers. By the time I open the door to my flat, I know sleep will not come to me this evening. There are matters that need to be resolved, things that need to be said.

I nearly lost her this evening. Not even a year ago she'd had a close call at the Federal Reserve, and I'd been bloody well scared out of my mind by the near miss. Enough so that I told her I wasn't prepared to lose her. Enough so that for days on end I'd ruminated on precisely what _that_ meant. It would have taken a doddering egit not to figure out I'd fallen hard for the lass. But truth be told, I had not a clue what to do with this realization.

Then, in Mexico, I'd been given every opportunity and had bodged it thoroughly. I'd managed to blurt out the words "I care for you." But after she'd poured out her fears, the best I could manage was a "You want a commitment," something I'd been dodging most of my life, because I don't know if I believe anything can last forever. When I look to the future, do I see her at my side? I do, in every version I can imagine.

This business we're in has its dangers, and there could come a day when I find myself in the position I was in tonight, again. And if I know anything beyond certainty it's that I don't want to it be the regrets of time wasted that breaks me. Love lost, perhaps. But not time wasted. And there's only one way to keep that from happening.

Before I can lose my nerve, I grab the keys to the Auburn off the credenza and vacate the flat.

Twenty minutes later, I stand before the door of her loft, pacing. I'm bloody well scared to death and I've the awful feeling it shows. I nearly turn tail, but then the memory of Laura on those stairs…

I lift my hand and depress the buzzer. The events of the day must have gotten to her as well, because she normally just pulls open the door, never mind who might be on the other side.

"Who is it?"

"It's me." There's a pause before the door opens, telling me I've caught her off guard. But she slides open the door, thank God. I don't know that I have it in me to press that buzzer again.

"Is everything alright?" she asks, her face showing her concern.

"Yes…" I stop before I complete that answer. _No, everything's not alright – not by half. I thought you'd died this evening._ That's what I want to shout, but I don't. "No…" I correct, then find myself unable to speak again.

"Come in, come in," she urges. I step inside, rubbing at my mouth nervously, as she slides the doors shut behind me then latches it. "What is it? What's wrong?" she asks, alarm ringing through her words.

When my eyes land on the stairwell on which she lay earlier, I know only one thing: a storm of fear, grief, and relief that threatens to drown me, and in turns creates a blinding need to feel her close. In one long stride, one of my arms circles her miniscule waist and the other wraps around her shoulders as I pull her to me. She barely has time to blink in surprise, before my lips cover hers. My body trembles at first contact. This is exactly what I needed, to be blanketed in her familiar scent, to nourish myself in her sweet flavor, to be assured she had, indeed, made it through the night's events with nary a scratch upon her lovely little body. I long ago learned how to restrain myself with her, but tonight I simply can't. Pressing my palm against the back of her head, I trace her lips with the tip of my tongue, beseeching her to open for me.

Instead of complying to my request, she slips her hands between us and pushes against my chest. Our lip part with a resounding pop, and I'm left literally quaking with need.

"What is it?" she asks again, her worry now peppering her voice, narrowing her eyes. I take solace in the fingers trekking through my hair, and lean into her touch.

Normally, when she places distance between us, I readily accept her decision. But as my glance falls upon those steps again, I simply can't. Not tonight.

"Laura," I mumble. I'd cringe at the desperation I hear in my own voice – if, that is, I had my faculties about me at all. I see her eyes flick to the stairs in the nanosecond before my lips find hers again. Our lips barely touch when she's placing distance between us again, tilting her head backwards and considering me at length.

"I'm alright, Mr. Steele," she assures. "I don't even have so much as a hangnail." I step back from her then pace several steps away, swiping a hand through my hair as I've come to do of late when particularly at odds with something. Even now I can hear Daniel…

" _You're forgetting yourself, Harry, my boy. A tell such as that will allow your opponent to identify your weaknesses."_

But I'm not in the room with a mark. I'm in the room with Laura, and my frustration is mounting.

"Well, I'm not!" I bark at her and watch as her eyes widen in surprise. As often as we argue, it is rare for me to actually raise my voice to her. "I've never been so bloody…" I can't say the words, the memory too fresh. "As enjoyable as this dance we've been doing the last year and a half has been, it's time we end the games, admit how we feel for one another and stop wasting precious time!"

I'm breathing hard by the time I've finished my pronouncement. I wait for her to say something, anything, but she seems to be dumbstruck. I never thought I'd see the day when Laura Holt would be rendered speechless and if the situation weren't so serious, I'd find it amusing. But the situation _is_ serious and it seems it will be me who has to take that first terrifying leap. I return to her and grasp her face in my hands, wait until her eyes meet mine.

"I love you, Laura," I manage, having found the courage to say the words after all. And once they've come, they won't stop. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you."

I wait until see the words have registered with her, then draw her lips up to mine. This time she doesn't push me away. Instead, one of her hands clutches my back while the other buries itself in my hair. I moan quietly at her acquiescence, and trace my tongue along her lips again. This time she opens to me. Our tongues duel, dance, caress each other. Goosebumps skitter over my skin when she hums against my lips. I part our lips slightly.

"I need you, Laura," I whisper, then cupping her face in my palms, touch my lips to her eyes when she closes them. " _I love you_ ," I tell her fervently, then brush my lips against a cheek. "Make love with me, Laura." I pepper a trail of soft kisses from her cheek to jaw, then tilt my head to continue the journey along her neck. With a staggered sigh, she leans her head back to give me more access to her neck.

I've never had to plead with a woman to take her to bed before, and frankly if another woman had hoped I would, she'd have been sorely disappointed, for I'd have turned and walked away without a second's hesitation. But this is Laura, the woman I love and nearly lost this evening. The demand to feel our bodies joined together, to feel her bare skin pressed to mine, is so keen that I'm prepared to grovel, if I must.

"I love you," I whisper again. "I'm in love with you," I qualify, lest she misunderstands. My lips find hers again, and I gather her tight in my arms, our bodies mold together from hip to chest. Unlike times past, I make no attempt to shift the proof of my desire away from her. I want her to know what she is doing to me, what she has always done to me. Never have I wanted a woman as much as I've wanted her.

" _I need you_ , Laura," I repeat, between long, lingering kisses.

I know a moment of desolation, when her hands against slip between our bodies. Ending the kiss, I force myself to accept this, like every other night before, will not happen. She won't allow it. I may have exposed my heart to her, but hers remains as tightly guarded as it's ever been. My chest rises and falls harshly as I try to catch my breath. I avert my head, unable to bear the look of contrition I'll find on her face. I suck in a sharp breath, as the sound of the zipper to my jacket sliding down seems to echo in the room. Turning my head, I stare down at the hands responsible for it. When I dare to lift my eyes, the sultry look in her beautiful brown ones momentarily makes it impossible for me to draw a breath.

"What do you want me to call you?" she asks, blushing a bit to even have to ask.

Here it is, one of the things that has prevented us from moving forward, and I can't help but wonder now it the truth will stand in our way, much the same as the secret has, for the answer is so farfetched that if it weren't my own life we were speaking of I might not believe me either. But only absolute truth would suffice. Anything less and we won't move forward, not to mention she'll likely never trust me again. Still, I can't look at her when I tell her, afraid of what I'll find in her face. I shove my hands in my pockets and rock back on my heels, staring at the stairs where I'd found her earlier.

"I don't know my name, Laura," I rasp out. "I don't know that I ever did. The only name I have to offer you, the only one I've ever cared to keep, is the one you gave me, then made me earn." I dare to take a peek at her, and don't find the pity or disbelief I thought I might, but find instead compassion and understanding. For the first time in our association, she doesn't press, doesn't question my veracity. She believes on faith alone that I've told her the truth and I love her all the more for it.

So, caught up in my thoughts was I, that I hadn't even realized her hands were on the move again, until she shoves my leather jacket over my shoulders. I'm effectively trapped in my own clothing, my hands tethered in by the cuffs of the sleeves, but she eases them over my hands, one at a time and my jacket drops to the floor. It occurs to me if she can relieve me of my clothing, then I can offer my assistance relieving her of some of hers. My hands move to her belt. Unbuckling it, I drop it on the floor near my jacket, as I lower my head, seeking out her luscious lips again.

This time, my hands don't remain stationary. They roam her gentle curves, stroke over a delightfully firm yet rounded bum, before moving upwards and tugging her blouse out from beneath the waistband of her skirt. I dare to slide a hand up under the tail of her shirt and can't stop the groan that passes my lips when I come into contact with her bare skin. I had imagined she'd be wearing one of those little teddies she had a partiality for and as lovely as they are, they would be just one more piece of clothing to wriggle her out of, and right now I wish for nothing more than to feel her skin against mine. I imagine she must feel much the same given the speed with which she is releasing the buttons of my own shirt.

"Laura," I breathe her name against her lips. Her lips lift in a smile, then seek mine out again, as her hands loosen my belt then pull my shirt out from beneath the waist of my pants. Then she's touching me, and I lose myself in the feel of her small hands roaming my sides, my chest, my belly. I can't quite believe it and in my dazed state, I forget that I'd been kissing her.

"Touch me, Remington," she whispers, next to my ear, then nips and kisses a blazing hot trail down my neck. I'm frozen in place, committing the way she'd said my name to memory. For the first time in my life, I feel complete: I have a name, a home, a profession, and the woman, who's removing my cufflinks, responsible for it all. Several seconds pass before her request registers.

My hands are unsteady as they move from one button on her blouse to the next, releasing them, until I'm able to remove her shirt. I toss it aside, and take time to appreciate the freckles which have been fully bared to my eyes, the little scrap of rose colored silk and lace she optimistically considers a bra. It leaves little to the imagination, outlining perfectly her small breasts, and doing nothing to hide the nipples which have hardened due to our antics. I need more.

But am frozen in place once again when she scrapes her nails lightly through my chest hair, then leans in to touch her lips against one of my nipples. She tilts her head back to look at me. Her skin's flushed, her eyes dazed with desire. She's the loveliest creature I've ever known and tonight she'll at last be mine.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," she confesses in a voice coated in honey, as her hands explore my bare shoulders, trek downwards over my chest and abdomen, then reverse direction.

"My God, Laura." The words are ripped from my lips when she leans forward and takes my nipple in her mouth, suckling it. One of my hands clutch her head to me, never wanting the feelings she's stirring in me to end, while the other strokes her delectable little bottom, making her squirm quite delightfully against me.

It's too much and not nearly enough, and if her next move is any indication, she agrees. As her hands release the hook and lower the zipper of my trousers, I toe off my shoes and socks. When my pants drop around my ankles, I don't give them a second thought as I kick them across the room. I grasp her face in my hands, and tip her head back, then dive in, fairly worshipping her mouth with mine while her hands travel over my hips, then reach around me to caress my bum. My cheeks flex automatically at the contact, and I moan aloud when she laughs a sultry little laugh.

"The bedroom," I someone how manage to suggest, and am once again stunned when she appears to be in agreement, if the way she's backing up as we continue to kiss is any proof.

My hands reach for the clasp of her skirt, releasing it, and I tug down the zipper. By the time we reach the stairs, she's rid herself of her heels and I've disposed of her skirt. I kneel on the top step to tug her pantyhose down, then toss them away, having no idea where they might have landed. By the time we cross the room, I've rid her of her bra. We tumble to the bed and I roll us over, until I'm laying stretched out between her legs. My tongue wets my lips as I take one of her small, plump breasts into hand for the first time. She arches her back at first contact, pressing her breast unwittingly into firmer contact with my hand. I accept the unspoken invitation and bow my head to circle my tongue around the nipple, before drawing the puckered peak firmly into my mouth.

"Oh, God," she cries out, then breathes my name, burying her hands in my hair, telling me by touch alone what it is she desires.

Her uninhibited responses to my touch makes me burn, and I unleash a tidal wave of sensation on her petite frame, as I explore every nuance of her body. I bring her to climax twice, once by hand and another by mouth, before she turns the tables on me, doing some detailed explorations of her own. I'm a bundle of raw, exposed nerves before she ever gets around to easing my briefs over my hips then off me. When she reaches out and takes my erection firmly in hand, I growl and snatch at her hand, then flip us over so she is beneath me again. It's too much and I'm barely holding it together. I need to be buried inside of her now, to feel her pillowing my hardness in her soft warmth. I claim her lips for my own when she willingly parts her legs and I settle between them.

It's then when a most unwelcome but necessary thought hits me.

"Ah, damn," I grumble, turning my head and peering downstairs in the general direction of where my pants are located. She stills beneath me, her eyes widening.

"What? What is it?" Her brows furrow at me when I open my mouth to speak, regret clearly painted on my face. "Don't you dare tell me you've changed your mind," she declares before I can speak. I chuckle low in my throat, fingering back a strand of hair that's hanging over her cheek, then touch my lips to hers.

"Not in a million years," I assure her. I indicate the living room downstairs with a nod of my head. "My wallet. I'll be right back." I shift my body to climb off her when her hands clutch at my back, stilling me.

"I'm on the pill, if that's alright by you," she tells me quietly, as she brushes back a lock of hair off my forehead.

I stare at her as thoughts riot in my head. The pill? Had there been someone in her life recently, other than myself, that would require she need it? The thought of another man touching her as I've been the last hour, leaves me feeling as though I've been punched squarely in the gut. Then there is the other matter: I've never entrusted protection to my partner, whoever she might be. I would neither risk leaving a child of mine behind nor being entrapped by a woman through this most archaic of means. But this is Laura and I trust her implicitly. She must notice the riot of thoughts and emotions swirling about in my brain for she adds…

"I've been on it since I was sixteen." _Ahhhh, so perhaps there hasn't been any recent competition for her affections; some man hoping to sweep her away before I've ever been truly given a chance._ "Remington? We can still…" she looks towards the living room. I finish the thought for her in my head. _We can still use a condom if you don't trust me._ I settle between her legs again and palm her face in a hand.

"I trust you implicitly. You _know_ that," I reassure her quietly. She nods her head rapidly, unable to disguise her relief. She catches hold of her own rampaging emotions, and thrusts her hips at me.

"Now, Remington," she urges. My lips tease hers as I take myself in hand and guide my throbbing erection to where it most wants to be. Positioned, I pause again, to lean my forehead against hers, as I take one of her hands in each of mine.

"I love you, Laura," I whisper, then push forward, inhaling a staggered breath as her exotic wet heat envelops the tip of my shaft. Her hands grip mine almost painfully as she draws in a sharp gasp. I'm not a man of false modesty and know that I'm well endowed, and she's tight… Dear Lord, so tight… and needs time to adjust to my presence.

"Oh, God," she pants beneath me. I drizzle kisses across her brow, her cheeks, her lips, waiting for her signal that I should move again. "Should I—"

"No," she says quickly and louder than she intended. She softens her voice. "No, stay." It's another couple of seconds before she tilts her hips. "More."

Taking her at her word, I pull back until I've nearly left her warmth altogether, then thrust my hips, pressing further inwards. This time I still as much for myself as her, as the sensuality of her body threatens to bring an end to our efforts before they even truly begin. Doing some panting on my own, I focus on her, but when a pair of brown eyes swimming with desire and something else I'm afraid to hope is real meet my own, it's all I can do not to explode in her warmth here and now. I lean down to kiss her, as her small hand streaks own my back. Helplessly I arch into her touch, the movement pressing me further into her depths.

"You feel so good," she breathes, then as if to prove it, wraps her legs around my hips, and thrusts her own, taking me in to the hilt.

"My God," I utter the drawn out oath. In the hundreds of dreams I've had about making love with her, never did I even close to imagining this. Her wet, silken heat wraps around me like a glove, and I can feel every twitch of the body surrounding me. Somewhere in my mind it occurs to me that I've finally come home, that all the paths, even the perils of my youth were leading me here to this, to her, one day.

"Remington," she pressed a kiss against my neck, "Move" she urges.

So, I do. Like our partnership all along, our rhythms are quickly in sync. It's only a matter of a couple of minutes, when Laura's legs shift to wrap around my thighs and her back arches off the bed as she wrests her hands away from mine so her arms might circle my neck while she cries out my name. I grind my teeth, at the feel of her clenching and tremoring around me, willing myself to keep my hips pumping, seeing her through her climax. When the last shudder leaves her body, I shift position slightly and change rhythms, pushing her upwards again hard and fast.

"Oh, God," she murmurs, as she understands what I'm about, but this time she's determined to take me with her.

Her hands wander across my chest, stopping to toy with my nipples, then over my side before crossing to my back. Her lips draw the skin of my collarbone into her mouth, and she alternately lathes my skin with her tongue, or suckles long and deep. That she wishes to mark me as her own, sends me perilously close the edge. All the while, her hips thrust in time with mine, and she takes me as hard and deep as she can. Still, I'm determined to see her through to another orgasm before I take my pleasure in her body. But it is my undoing when she threads her fingers through my hair and lifts my head upwards.

"Look at me, Remington," she insists.

I mean to, but as my eyes travel upward, my eyes catch sight of her flushed breasts, their pert nipples, and I'm thoroughly distracted. Pinching a nipple between my finger and thumb, I roll and pluck at it. Her back arches again, and she can't squelch her moan of pure delight. I feel her legs sliding over my bum, to lock around my thighs again and I know she's near. She tugs on my hair and this time, my eyes journey over her face, then meet her eyes.

"I love you, too," she half moans, half gasps.

It's the end of me. To be sheathed snugly within the woman I love, as her hips thrust and she squirms with pleasure beneath me, then to hear the words I haven't realized until now I've craved for a long, long time? My hips falter as I shift again, resting against my elbows so my hands can cup her face. I lean down and kiss her, conveying every emotion she has just set loose in me through the touch of my lips to hers. Only three short thrusts later and I'm gone, groaning her name against her neck, as I slide my arms beneath her to gather her close as I can, when I realize that by some miracle she's found her pleasure as well. I manage to continue moving my hips until she no longer contracts around me, then I collapse upon her, my breath heaving.

It takes me a minute to catch my breath, but once I do, I roll us to our sides, facing one another. I can't stop touching her, and the same holds true for her with me. Not a word is said, our touch saying it all. Finally, with a demure little yawn, and a touch of her lips to mine, she weaves a leg between mine, nestles herself against my chest and we sleep.


	6. What's Next?

I'm not sure what wakes me, if is the sun streaming through the windows above me or that somewhere in my dreams I've realized the sheets next to me have grown cool. I know a minute of panic, wondering if Laura's run, believes last night a mistake. I don't know that I could bear it if she did, since for me last night was… everything. An end to our old dance, the beginning of a new one; the end of all the uncertainty, the beginning of creating something strong and lasting. As I am mulling that thought, I hear the sound of a kettle whistling from below.

Ah, so she hasn't run for the hills, but for the caffeine. I should have known. The woman can't function until she gets the first cup of that swill she claims to be coffee into her body.

I sit up in bed and sling my legs over the side, taking time to rub the sleep from my eyes, stretch my jaw, then run my fingers through my hair hoping to bring it to some semblance of order. That's when I realize I'm at a distinct disadvantage: There's nary a piece of clothing here for me to wear, outside of what I arrived in last evening, and the vast majority of that apparel lays scattered about somewhere down below. Not that I'm uncomfortable meandering about in the all together, I just prefer a bit of equality when I'm in company and I'm fairly certain my lovely Miss Holt is not wandering around downstairs in the buff.

I raise my brows. It's an intriguing thought, however.

Ah, speaking of Laura, she's apparently hung my clothes over the railing while I've slept, so I won't need to be going off on search of them after all. Quite a lady, my Miss Holt. But I've always known that.

I pull on underwear and pants, then pad downstairs bare footed. I find Laura standing in front of the refrigerator wrinkling her nose in the direction of the open container of yogurt she holds in her hand. I slide my arms around her waist, embracing her from behind and press a kiss to her neck.

"Good morning, Miss Holt," I greet. She reaches back and caresses my cheek with her fingertips.

"Good morning, Mr. Steele," she answers in kind, then returns her focus to the carton in her hand. "For some reason, I'm famished this morning." I chuckle quietly.

"Can't imagine why." I peer down over her shoulder at the carton in her hand. _Egads_. "And unless your intent is to experiment with new forms of penicillin of the non-pill kind, I would suggest we put this where it belongs."

I pluck the container from her hands, and releasing her, dump it into the refuse bin. Lifting her by the waist, I plop her on the kitchen counter, then survey the contents of the refrigerator. As I suspect, it's nearly empty. There are four eggs barely within the date of expiration, a not too rubbery green pepper, a small piece of cheddar cheese left over from the weekend prior, and wonder of all wonders, a few slices of wheat bread still left in the bread bin and not speckled in blue. I make myself at home in her kitchen as I often do.

"This should tide you over, for now at least. We can stop and pick up something a bit more substantial on the way to the office." She gazes at me over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Oh, I don't think we'll be doing that," she answered vaguely, a smile sparkling her eyes. I pause for a long second to admire the bare leg peeking out of her robe, that she's swinging lazily.

"Oh, and why is that? An appointment I'm unaware of?" I ask, returning my attention to food preparation. I crack a couple of the eggs into a bowl before she answers.

"We've billed enough hours this week to pay the Agency's bills for a month, so I think we deserve the day off, don't you?" I do a double take. Laura Holt closing the Agency for the day? Unheard of. I wonder, briefly, if it's her doppelganger perched there on the counter, but a pert pair of brows raised in my direction and a smile glimmering on her lips confirms it's my Laura. I put down the egg in my hand, and cross to the dining alcove, making a display of looking out the window.

"What are _you doing_?!"

"No, no flying pigs," I comment as I return to my place at the counter. "And I'm fairly certain hell hasn't frozen over, elsewise it would be on the cover of today's paper," I nod my head in the direction of the newspaper lying at the end of the counter. She snorts a little laugh. "And Mildred?"

"I've already called and let her know we won't be in today." She pursed her lips in thought. "She did say Julian Baron called first thing this morning to let us know those slides we requested would be delivered today by noon." The omelet I'm whipping up suddenly demands my full attention. "You wouldn't happen to know what slides he's speaking of, would you, _Mr. Steele_?" I pull the chopping board out of a cabinet before answering.

"I imagine he's referring to the pictures of the runway show," I answer, then wait for that marvelous temper of hers to flare.

"I see." She takes another sip of her coffee while I wait… and wait… and wait some more. I'm thoroughly flummoxed, but leave the issue lie.

"Any idea what you'd like to do today?" I inquire as I dice the green pepper, glancing over at her.

"Oh, one… or maybe two ideas." She rakes her eyes over me, starting at my mouth, ending at a certain impertinent piece of anatomy which is now standing at full attention. I set down the knife I am holding and turn to look at her, shoving my hands in my pockets and rocking back on my heels.

"Is it really going to be this easy, Laura?" I blurt out before I can think better of it. "No questions about commitment? What my intentions are now? In the future?" Growing serious, she sets her cup on the counter and levels a steady gaze on me.

"Alright, we can do that. Where do we stand, Remington?" she asked forthrightly. Despite the fact it was I who'd brought it up, I'm suddenly as nervous as man standing before a firing squad. I pace away several steps, pulling a hand through my hair, before I turn to face her again.

"Do you want to move in together?" I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly gone dry. Given the success of Laura's first attempt at living with a man, I'm fairly certain I know what her answer will be to that. But, the fact remains, as forward thinking as she might be, she's made it clear from the first that she's not interested in a 'roll in the hay', as she likes to put it. "Do you want to get…" I push the word past my lips "…married?" She barks a laugh.

"God no!" she answers instantly, seeming positively appalled by the suggestion. I glower in her direction, offended. Yes, yes, I find the former suggestion has a certain appeal to it, but the latter? I can't imagine either of us are ready for that… although, now that I think on it, I'm not ruling it out as a possibility somewhere down the line. But even I didn't find the idea completely repugnant, which is the impression I get from her.

"My apologies, Miss Holt. I hadn't realized the idea of committing yourself long term to me was so off-" She shakes her head at me.

"Don't do that," she admonishes me quietly. "You're no more prepared to get married than I am. As for living together? I'm not saying no, but it's not something I'm willing to just jump into either. I did that before, with Wilson, and look where it left me: with a white belt and a t-shirt that says 'Bankers do it with interest.' _If,_ we decide to move in together some day, it has to happen naturally. We can't force it simply because we _think_ now that we've crossed the line into bedroom, decisions about the future need to be made here and now." My lips are pursed and I'm nodding my head slowly in agreement.

"So what is it you _do_ want?" I wonder aloud, as I resume dicing the pepper.

"I don't know," she answers, lifting her hands and dropping them to emphasize the point. "I'd want to know you're not seeing… sleeping… with anyone else, I suppose. I'd like your word if you decide this is not working out, I won't simply wake up one morning and find you gone." I set down the knife and move to stand in front of her. At this rate, it will be verging on lunchtime by the time I get a single omelet made. But, some things are more important.

"Laura," I touch two fingers under her chin and lift it, so she's looking me in the eyes, "I haven't gone out with, let alone slept with, another woman since Creighton Phillips and Sheila Taplinger stormed and slinked through our lives. You and I have lived in one another's pockets since, if you hadn't noticed. That's not going to change."

"Alright," she intones. I suppose I should be insulted by the hesitation in her voice, but quite frankly, she wouldn't be Laura Holt if she trusted wholly and without proof.

"As for the last? _I'm not going anywhere_ ," I emphasize each word. "But I give you my word: you'll never wake and find me simply gone." She releases a long, slow breath and, blinking her eyes, nods her head rapidly.

"What do you want?" she asks, turning the tables neatly on me. "I can't imagine there isn't something." I look down at myself ruefully.

"Clothes would be a nice start." This draws a laugh from her as I return my attention to breakfast.

"I'm sure I can make room in my closet for a few of your things," she agreed easily. "What else?"

"Time, Laura," I answer firmly, turning my head to look at her. "Time for us. When we don't wish to tell one another goodnight, we don't… no matter if we have to work in the morning or if a case might pull us away. And I don't mean simply making love. I mean presence. I want you present when I go to sleep at night, when I wake in the morning, more often than not." She mulls this request over, while tapping a finger on her lips.

"But if a case calls, we leave," she clarifies.

"Same as we do now, except we'd depart from one address instead of two," I confirm.

"I want time with you, as well," she agrees, then blushes prettily at the admission.

I wonder if she'll ever be able to admit she needs me as much as I need her without feeling like it implies she is unable to stand on her own two feet. Still, I'm so touched by her willingness to give me what I ask, that the knife is once more deposited on the counter. I step to her and cupping the back of her neck with a hand, draw her lips up to mine. I mean it to be nothing more than a thank you, but the memories of our bodies joined, our limbs intertwined, enflame my body within seconds, and I wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her closer to me as I deepen the kiss. If the way her hands grasp my hips is any indication, she is as equally affected.

"Remington," she murmurs against my lips. "Breakfast can wait." Ah, but it does a man's heart good to know he's wanted by the woman he adores beyond reason. Still, I can't help but go fishing for a compliment.

"Enjoyed yourself last night, hmmm?" I hum as my lips leave hers to explore the silken skin of her neck, and one of my hands seeks out the sash of her robe.

"It was… nice," she offers. My hand stills and I rear back to stare at her, astounded by her assessment.

"Nice?" I repeat in question, lifting a brow at her. "Laura, last night wasn't nice. It was ground moving, earth shaking, life alter—" She heaves a heavy breath, and rolls her eyes.

"Alright. It was… fine," she qualifies, pursing her lips to stop the smile that is already glimmering in her eyes. "Perfectly… fine."

"A challenge, Miss Holt? You know I'm a man who enjoys the impossible challenge," I warn with a smile.

"I suppose we'll find out if you can rise to the occasion," she answers, staring at her hand and flicking her nails, feigning boredom.

I can't help but laugh. And before she knows what's happened, I've flung her over my shoulder and am carrying her across the living room towards the bedroom, as she kicks and squirms.

"Remington, put me down," she sputters, almost unable to force the words past her laughter.

I do… in my own good time. I toss her onto her bed upstairs amongst her gales of laughter, then dive onto the bed behind her. She's still laughing when I stretch myself out over her, and finger her hair away from her face. For a man who was uncertain he'd ever be able to say the words less than twenty-four hours ago, I'm suddenly compelled to say them again and again, until she believes them without reservation.

"I do love you," I tell her quietly, my eyes staying with hers. Her laughter fades away, her brown eyes search my face, her features soften. She nods her head.

"I love you, too."

We've the words, we've crossed that line, we've committed to one another, to more time with another and have agreed to move towards a future together, wherever that road may lead us. What more can a man ask for?

Then, her lips lift in a little smirk in the split second before her fingers dig into my ribs, ripping a laugh past my lips.

Ah, yes, the challenge.

She'll always be just that, I'm sure.


	7. Sam the Ham

_Laura_

What was I thinking!?

I should know, by now, that broad instructions given to Mr. Steele inevitably result in some sort of chicanery on his part.

We've gone undercover in the fashion mart, the infamous fashion show held each year in Los Angeles, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, featuring some of the best known designers in the world. Our client, Julian Barron, is convinced someone is out to steal his latest designs. While it would appear, on the surface, a trifling matter, it's not at all. An original dress Barron could attach a seven-thousand dollar price tag to could quickly be rendered a seven dollar off the rack garment should someone swipe the design and create thousands of knock offs. Surprisingly, espionage within the fashion world was remarkably common.

I had, reluctantly, agreed to take to the catwalk, a model to be ogled and groped, all for the honor of assisting in the sale of an obscenely overpriced garment that I couldn't distinguish from any other black, red or white dress sold at Bloomingdales. The mere idea of displaying myself as flesh and nothing more went against everything I'd ever fought against: women as subservient, not as capable as men, meant to be little more than a man's complacent mate. Yet, there was no faster way to get behind the scenes, and feel out the other models, so cope with it I would, and all the while with a smile at the ready.

Mr. Steele, on the other hand, had been assigned the role of buyer. I'd envisioned him as a snooty, austere and demanding Brit, unwilling to part with the first quid unless the garments under consideration met his fastidious standards. It was the perfect part for him, after all, he with his tailor made suits, French cuffs, silk ties and Italian shoes. But did my vision come to fruition?

_Of course not!_ I hadn't, after all, spelled out point-by-point, letter-by-letter, what I expected of him. Not that I had to, given he and I had had a knack for understanding the other without a word spoken… well, at least when it came to these types of ploys… from almost the start. But since I'd been remiss in my instructions, since I hadn't pounded into his head _exactly_ what I was expecting, what did I get?

Sam from Birmingham. Sam the obnoxious ham. Sam the chauvinistic man.

It's at times like these I want to throttle the man! Yet, loathe as I am to admit it, I'm left impressed by his chameleon like nature. This Sam from Birmingham is as different from the man I've come to know as his Johnny Todd persona. Sam is as repulsive as Mr. Steele is charming, as uncouth as Mr. Steele is refined, and as handsy as Mr. Steele wishes he could be with me, I'm sure.

Speaking of which...

"Ohhhh wonderful texture," an smarmy voice intoned, as a hand stroked over my satin clad hip. "Beautiful sheen." Then a cheek of my bottom. "So sleek. So…so… touchable." And finally dared to palm my bottom, squeezing it. It's something I've fantasized about a time… or a hundred… those sensual hands gliding over my body, grasping my hips as I rise and fall above him. But now's neither the time nor place, and I'm already feeling like a mindless, soulless piece of meat in this role where I am appreciated only for my surface. I level him with a heated glare in the mirror before spinning around, to grace him face-to-face with the same.

"Watch it, buster!" I warn between clenched teeth. Lila leans in closer to me

"Easy honey," she cautions. "The buyer's always right."

She's right, I know, and had it been anyone else I would have plastered a smile on my face while pretending to be flattered by manhandling. But, this isn't someone else, and I see by the quick flash of alarm in his eyes that he knows he's taken things a bit too far. He never breaks from his role, and even takes the opportunity to land his hand on the bottoms of a couple of other models. A jolt of jealousy courses through me, which even I have to acknowledge is irrational. Seeing each other we might be, but I not only have no claim on him, but he's made it _very_ clear he can make me no promises, which is why our physical relationship is virtually non-existent: kisses, a few stray caresses that wouldn't even warrant being termed 'second base'. Still, I don't have it in me to watch him fondling other women, no matter how intentionally over the top the action is, in keeping with his role, and I drag him away from Lila and into the dressing area.

"Spare me your pranks," I tell him, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. "It's enough that I have to slither through that meat line out there."

"Duty first, Laura."

"It's demeaning. It's degrading." I watch as his eyes wander around the room, taking in the other models in various state of undress. It's obvious my words have barely registered with him, and I slip out of my gown, intent on reminding him of what he's wanted for the past year plus: me.

"Yes, indeed, I'm sure it is." He's oblivious to me standing before him in nothing but a black satin and lace teddy, his eyes on a voluptuous blonde, the epitome of 'his type' before I came along… at least _I hope_ since I came along. I've always been confident in my appeal to men before, but have found when it comes to him, I have a streak of insecurity a mile wide. That he's tweaked it again, leaves me snapping at him.

"Eyes front, St. Cloud." He snaps to attention at the sound of my voice, and as Julian Barron, our client approaches, it is only then that he realizes my near lack of attire. I worry, for a minute, that I may have taken things a step too far given as we confer with the client I can feel his eyes wandering over my sternum, returning again for a hopeful glimpse of a breast that he has yet to see after all this time.

Still, as we take off on foot after a potential suspect I can't help but to think, _game, set, match_ , _St. Cloud. If you ever hope to see what's underneath, you better fall in line._

Until I'm once again reminded of why I worry incessantly about the two of us mixing business with pleasure. I've been so caught up in making him remember who it is he is there with, that _I've_ completely forgotten I'm dressed in nothing more than my underwear.

Which is how I end up in the middle of the audience, being leered at by dozens of patrons. I have no choice but to send Mr. Steele after the culprit while I return to the dressing room to don clothes.

_Damn it._


	8. Carl the Creep

Why is it the cases you hope to wrap up quickly are the ones that seem to linger on? If we don't solve this soon, I'll be back on that catwalk, a thought I find about as attractive as I find seeing Major DesCoine again, of having a root canal… or seeing Major DesCoine _while_ having a root canal. On second thought, the latter might be the more attractive of options to that catwalk.

On the bright side, it makes more palatable the idea of schmoozing this behemoth, Carl, who I'm about to step in a cab with. I turn and quickly give Mr. Steele a jaunty salute with two fingers to my fedora, then resist the urge to curl my nose as I climb in the taxi. I mean, let's be honest here: Carl is to Mr. Steele like anchovies are to caviar.

Not that I'd admit so much to Mr. Steele. Oh, ho! His head would swell to gargantuan proportions and I already have enough on my plate trying to keep that ego of his contained.

Still, I'm none too pleased that I had to hand him over to Lila. Lila of her 'I'm a player' and 'long relationships are not my style' lines. She's already made note that she believes 'Sam' is loaded. Not that I believe he'll take her up on any offers made, this is business after all. But that faith in him is of little consolation, at the moment, as my imagination has kicked into gear and I have to wonder how much charm he'll have to bestow upon her to get the information we need.

Speaking of which, the hand that has come to lay to rest on my thigh has drawn me from my reverie and not pleasantly so. I plaster a smile on my face and force my attention to the task at hand.

By the time we arrive at Carl's health food store, my focus is fully on him… and his roving hands. We stopped to pick up take out Mexican and case of beer that long ago lost its chill. Dinner was filled with conversation about himself, meant to impress, I'm sure, but I continued to smile and feign interest even as I pecked at my food. After the meal, he poured us each a glass of beer, something I don't mind on a rare occasion, although - not to sound to snobby about it - when I do have one I prefer it draught, ice cold and in a chilled mug, not warm, from a can, and poured into a water glass. But, that beer is the least of my worries. I think he may actually believe he is Mr. Romance, when he flips on the radio and yanks me to him, grinding his body against me continuously while his hands roam over my back, cop a feel of the side of my breast, caress a cheek of my bottom.

It's all I can do not to ground a heel into his foot. _The case, Laura, remember the case,_ I remind myself, then have to quash the urge to shout 'hallelujah' when he inadvertently offers up the perfect excuse for me to get out of his clutches.

"Oh," he sighs, as contented it would seem, as I am disgusted. "A little dancing, a little take out, a couple of cold ones – what more could you ask for?"

For a split second my mind wonders back to few weeks before, when Mr. Steele and I had played hooky from work and had spent the afternoon picnicking and, yes, playing in the park.

* * *

_**"Rustic setting. Not a single word about work, the food, the wine…tons of fresh air…And lots and lots of running."** _

* * *

It's rare for me to be so verbose about the time we spend together, but I was relaxed and happy, making me more free with my words than normal. It had, quite frankly, been the most romantic picnic I'd ever known.

Not that I'd admit so much to Mr. Steele….

I give myself a mental shake and return to the matter at hand.

"Some ice?" I ask, then add hopefully. "If you have some?" He looks at me as though I've lost my mind.

"For beer?" he asks, disbelievingly.

"Ah, well, you know how it is. Family tradition." It's the best I have, but he seems to buy it, ducking through the curtained doorway into the back of the store.

I quickly search his blazer and come up dry, damn it: not a single roll of film to be found. Unless Mr. Steele has managed to pry it out of the hands of Lila, another trip down that catwalk looms in my future. Double damn. But, at least I can find a plausible reason for leaving and getting away from this handsy creep.

As it turns out, there is no excuse needed. The man's not only a Neanderthal but a clumsy one, spilling my beer down the front of my shirt. After using his restroom to clean up a bit, I make my excuses and leave, insisting that there is no need for him to see me home.

All I can think of as the taxi drives across town is a long, hot shower and not because of the eau de beer I am currently wearing. I simply feel… icky… after the creep's hands were all over me, and the smell of his cologne overrides even the beer on my shirt.

Yes, a shower, is exactly what I need.


	9. Sitting Duck

I'm midway through my shower before my thoughts turn to Mr. Steele. I wonder how successful he's been with the search for the film, which inevitably turns to thinking about how far he's needed to go to get the information. I am not immune to jealousy. Far from it, at least when it comes to this particular man. The idea of those blue eye turning dark with desire for another woman, his hands…

I have to stop, or I'll drive myself crazy. I step out of the shower, dry off, and pull on underwear and a modest nightgown. The evening has turned a little nippy, and this particular gown not only hangs to the floor and covers me to the wrist, but is made of a soft brushed flannel, certain to keep the chill at bay. Mr. Steele would, I'm sure, be horrified by the gown, would likely ramble off the name of some movie that took place in the days of the pioneers in an effort to pinpoint the era in which it belongs. Alright, so it is a bit on the _Little House on the Prairie_ side, but I'm out for practical and there's no one I need to impress.

That thought draws a sigh from me, as I step into my kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.

I want the man. There's no denying it. I have from the very first moment our eyes met when he'd appeared at the Agency as Ben Pierson. The attraction had been instantaneous, potent. But there were other things to consider beyond my libido. That a one night stand is outside my norm? Yes, it is. I can count on less than one hand the number of men I've shared a bed with, and I'm never quite sure if that is something I should take pride in or be embarrassed about. There's the Agency, my dreams, its demands, and the complications that could arise should we cross that line.

Then, of course, there is the big one: After Wilson walked out on me I swore I would never let my heart become entangled again.

But it's too late for that, and I'm not quite certain when it happened. I can pinpoint the moment I knew there was so much more to Mr. Steele than the surface, the personas, the gambits, and the devil-may-care attitude: The day he tossed the morgue attendant against the wall for referring to Wallace as 'just another junkie.' I can tell you the exact second that I knew he could never be merely a roll in the hay to me: That night on the pier when we shared our first kiss. I can't recall a single time in my life that I have kissed a man and the thought 'this is it' has rambled through my head. But it did with him, and it scared the living hell out of me. And still does. I even know the precise instant that I finally admitted to myself that I'd laid claim to him in my heart, quite unwillingly but quite factually all the same: As I was drinking with the divorcees during the Marcal case.

* * *

" _ **He's mine. You can't have him. Not yet."**_

* * *

If I hadn't been three sheets to the wind at the time, I'd never have been so brazen as to admit that to the women. Then, later, when I'd sobered, I wouldn't have had to admit it to myself as well.

For better or worse, I was already in too deep.

And because I am, I cannot take that next step until I know when I wake the next morning, I won't find him gone. Better to be haunted by dreams of him in my arms, in my bed, moving beneath me, above me… to deny myself, and him, what it is we both want… than to lose him altogether.

The tea kettle whistles and I pour myself a cup, adding a little sugar, a touch of cream – both of which would leave Mr. Steele shriveling his nose. The thought makes me smile as I carry my cup across the living room, taking a sip then setting it on the coffee table in favor of the jacket laying across a chair, which has caught my eye. Bulletz referred to the material as inferior, a description I might disagree with, I surmise, as I pick it up. It's lightweight, yet crisp and even after being fished from a trash receptacle is nearly wrinkle free. On an impulse, I slip it on over my nightgown.

I haven't even adjusted the lapel when the door to my loft slides open and Carl walks in, gun drawn, its site set on me. Stunned doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling. I keep my eyes on him as I try to identify any route to safety.

"The blazer," he demands. And then realization dawns.

"it was never film," I speculate as I move cautiously towards the middle of the room. "All this time it was the jacket everybody wanted."

"No more talk. I want that blazer… Now." His eyes are as cold as his voice, and I know to my core that even if I voluntarily hand over the jacket, he still has every intention of pulling that trigger. I'm a witness. I know about Mark Pryne. I am now, too, a victim. All enough to add up to serious time in prison for him. I have no choice but to attempt to flee.

"Not a chance, Carl," I tell him, then spin on my heel.

I hear the retort of the gun being fired.

I feel a searing pain in the middle of my back.

And then I only know darkness.


	10. Revelation

It's a voice that first slips past the darkness to pierce my consciousness. It's all so hazy at first, as though I'm deep under water, fighting to paddle my way to the surface. Words, muffled, indistinguishable. The feeling of ground shifting out from under me. In the distance, someone sobbing. As the murkiness of unconsciousness begins to release its hold on me, I realize I'm being held. I feel his lips at my temple, his hot breath warming my skin. Moist eyelashes flutter against my forehead.

"Oh, babe."

The endearment clears what remains of the cobwebs, and I realize Mr. Steele is cradling me against his quaking body and that he's beyond distraught, although I'm at a loss for why.

"I hate to interrupt while I'm ahead," I manage to get out despite the lingering fogginess.

The man holding me goes still as a statue.

"Laura?..." He turns me around. "Laura?"

Then, in a flash he's all movement, hugging me, grasping my head in his hands, raining kisses over my face, calling me 'babe'.

Babe? Where did that come from? Unsure if I should be flattered or insulted, I set that thought aside for later. Now, brain a bit rattled, his emotions already on edge, is not the time to speculate on the sole endearment he's ever used towards me. Set it aside, Laura, set it aside.

Then it comes to me: the revelation it was the jacket Carl and Lila were after all along.

"Wait a minute!" I insist, pushing away from him and grasping his upper arms as we remain sitting on the steps. "It's beginning to make sense!" He's clearly not ready to listen to me. Still overwrought, he tugs me back into his embrace.

"Oh, nothing makes sense except that you're alive and well," he proclaims, then stalls as a realization of his own comes to him. "Laura, why are you alive and well?"

The memories flood back with a vengeance. Confronting Carl. The gun in his hand. The bone jarring pain in my back and the sudden darkness. How am I alive? I felt the impact of the bullet, and it had been significant enough to send me flying. With a cringe, I realize I must have fainted from the pain alone, for a mental inventory of my head reveals no soreness where I might have hit it, rendering me unconscious. But how? How am I here, live and well, as Mr. Stele has just asked.

I turn away from him and finger the back of the jacket, feeling where the bullet has seared a hole in the fabric. Yet I am untouched, except for noticeable bruising identified by my fingertips. How? Then it comes to me.

"This blazer Mr. Steele." I turn to look at him, notice that Bulletz has come inside the loft and stands beside him now. But I'm too excited by this discovery to acknowledge him. "It's steel!"

"What?" he manages to ask, not particularly interested in my revelation. He's still in shock, and my announcement only serves to confuse him all the more. I press on.

"This is some fabric!"

"Miss Holt?" Bullet ventures. "You okay?"

"Carl and Lila didn't want to get Julian's film," I explain. "This jacket. They wanted the jacket all the time! That's what Mark was killed for!" Mr. Steele forces himself to concentrate on what it is I am saying.

"You mean bullet proof?" he verifies.

"Exactly. Top of the line, yet light and stylish," I confirm as I get to my feet. A thought strikes me. "And I think I know just the man who can tell us all about it."

I march up the stairs to my bedroom to get dressed. I know. I know I should put business on hold for now, that I should reassure Mr. Steele until he finds his footing again. But, he's not the only one off balance right now. I don't know what to make, what to do with, his reaction to my 'death.' For two people who so carefully school our emotions day-in-and-day-out, afraid to reveal too much of either of ourselves, I am left confused by a reaction that seem to go well beyond the loss of a partner or good friend.

It's a feeling all too familiar, at the same time, as I remember when I believed DesCoine had killed him.

Business. We'll both be better off if we focus on the business at hand.

Resolved, I pick up the handset to the phone at my bedside and call an old friend.


	11. Confusion

With Periot dead, the case wrapped up and Mr. Steele dropped off at home, I'm finally able to take some much needed time to sort out the events of this evening.

The jacket was returned to Overdyne, the fabric both proprietary to them and stolen from them. Carl and Lila are in the hands of the LAPD. But the thought that brings a smile to my face is that the brothers Bloustein have put aside old differences and have reunited. Life is too short to let go of family so easily, in my opinion. If only my father hadn't let go of ours with, seemingly, such ease.

I laugh quietly as I recall our meeting with Milton.

An old friend from Stanford, Milton and I were once what one might refer to as 'study buddies', although it went well beyond that, for him at least. To me, Milton was a dear friend, someone that I could trust, someone that directed no judgements towards me, who encouraged me to follow my dreams, stereotypes be damned.

Unlike the girls of Four East. Yes, those women are a part of my best memories of Stanford. Yes, I remain friendly with all of them, five years after graduation. But then, like now, I am the one that stands out, and not necessarily in a good way.

During our college years, all of them had embraced the philosophies of the 'sexual revolution' and freely, without apology, lived the lives of 'drugs, sex and rock-n-roll' – all while maintaining impeccable GPA's. As for myself? More than once Barbara or Joanna had good naturedly referred to me as 'too serious for my own good' or a 'prude.' Oh, I'd earned their accolades after the seduction of my professor, but that, too, was short lived. If the experience had taught me anything, it was that I wanted more. I'd experienced the requisite, clumsy, groping sex in the back seat of a battered old car in high school. I'd had the random college encounter. What I wanted more than anything was something… meaningful… enduring… where promises were made and the future was looked toward.

I thought I'd found that in Wilson. Ha!

And now? Those girls from Four East had gone on to have it all. Respected careers: Neurosurgeon, psychologist, seated member of the Stock Exchange, television executive… Respected, power broking husbands: A cardiologist, nuclear physicist, producer and real estate magnate. Each of them with the requisite 2.3 children, dog named Spot and cat named Mittens.

I, of course, have my career. A career I take great pride in. A career, in fact, that I love. I have also accomplished something none of them would have even imagined to endeavor: creating someone out of whole cloth then convincing all of Los Angeles that the man truly existed. There have been some long, lonely nights when I've imagined announcing to each of them this feat, fully able to envision the shocked yet impressed looks upon their faces.

But, of course, I never will. Never would have. But most especially not now. Now that there is a very real man bearing that name I created.

A man whose jealousy was tweaked this evening, I recall with a laugh.

Throughout out last two years at Stanford, Milton had made no secret of his crush on me. He'd never acted on it and I did my best to discourage it. Don't get me wrong. Milton is intelligent, motivated and kind beyond words. One of the truly good ones. But I'd never been even slightly attracted to him. There were no sparks set off when our hands accidentally brushed. Chills didn't race down my spine when we hugged good night. Never once had I imagined what it would be like to kiss him, let alone do anything else. And, being one of those truly good ones, he never made a move on me to test the waters.

This evening had been the most aggressive I'd ever seen him, as a matter of fact, purposefully positioning himself between myself and Mr. Steele. As for that Binky? I'm hard pressed to believe that was an accidental slip of the tongue. For seven years, that nickname has been a private joke, used just amongst the two of us, never in public.

I can't help but smile again as I remember Mr. Steele's response to that name. It's not often that opportunities to arouse his jealousy come along, but 'Binky' certainly did the trick. In a flash, he lips were hovering next to my ear.

* * *

 

" _ **Binky?"**_

" _ **You have your secrets and I have mine."**_

* * *

 

I'd delivered the response with exactly the right amount of smugness, for his reaction to that was nearly as esteem boosting as his first: He dismissed Milton from the mix. And, being the nice guy that Milton was, he discretely removed himself from our vicinity.

Still, as much enjoyment as I derived from the moment, it has only served to ramp up my ever present confusion where Mr. Steele is concerned.

He's never been less than honest with me, I have to give him that. I need a commitment to move forward, and it's simply something he is unable to give me, neither able to promise me a future with him beyond today nor to assure me he won't soon move on his way.

If he wants no more than today from me, why, then, is he so territorial when it comes to me? Today, is by no means the first time he's exhibited this behavior – quickly putting himself mentally or physically between me and another man. Creighton Phillips, murderous louse he turned out to be… competing with Murph… taking to task his friend Derek Vivyan for his inappropriate pass at me… his pique after my lazy, seductive afternoon with Paul Dominic in Mexico… even the hapless honeymooner in Acapulco, where he'd only half in jest proclaimed

* * *

 

" _ **Really, Laura. You cut me to the quick. The minute my back's turned, there you are, sharing a tequila sunrise with another man."**_

* * *

 

I let out a short, huffy breath.

And tonight, his reaction when he found me? What am I to make of that?

Babe.

Babe?

Never, not once in our association, has he referred to me with any type of endearment. No cutesy pet names – thank God. No darling's, dear's, or honey's. So where in the hell did _that_ come from? What does it mean, if anything? Is that how he really thinks of me, in the furthest recesses of his mind. If so, my hat's off to him, because he's never revealed so much as an inkling that he thinks of me by any terms other than 'Laura,' 'Miss Holt' and 'my associate.'

And I'm still not sure how I should feel about the term he let slip.

Babe?

Babe.

Babe…

If that word had come rolling off of any other man's tongue, just regaining consciousness or not, I would have soundly, verbally boxed their ears. Yes, yes. It's a trendy, eighties word to use towards someone you're involved with. Still, 'babe', 'baby', holds an implication that the one to whom you are referring needs to be sheltered, coddled and I am anything but that. There's even an argument that could be made the reference, in itself, is misogynistic and demeaning.

Yet, somehow, said as he had, his accent caressing the word, it had done things to me that I wasn't quite prepared for. Am still not prepared for.

What do I do with that?

How can I even answer that question when I still can't wrap my head around his reaction to my presumed 'demise'? Distraught doesn't even begin to cover it. If it were anyone else, the word heartbroken would come to mind.

But that would mean attributing to him emotions for me that I can't even begin to presume that he has. Oh, I know he cares for me, he's made that clear enough over the last year plus.

* * *

 

" _ **I almost lost you out there tonight. Suddenly, I realized I'm not prepared for that at all."**_

" _ **Damn it, Laura, I care for you!"**_

* * *

 

But he's been equally clear on what he can't give me.

* * *

 

" _ **I'm not planning on cutting a fast tango through your life and I'm not going to stop wanting you but those are the only guarantees I can give you."**_

* * *

 

There's a certain irony in that: It's his honesty that makes me unable to trust him with my heart.

I find myself laughing aloud at that.

While I have no idea what the man feels for me, I've known for some time now what my feelings are for him. That I've fallen, and fallen hard for the man, despite my vows not to, is a source of never ending irritation… and dismay… for me. My promises to myself after Wilson have all fallen to ashes, and here I am: In love with a man who comes with an undefined yet absolute expiration date.

And there are days I am furious with myself for it.

I blow out a short breath.

The only thing this line of thinking is going to do is leave me frustrated and flogging myself yet again. If I haven't been able to sort out what exactly I am to the man before today, I'm certainly not going to be able to do it tonight. My focus turns towards the latest steamy novel I have tucked away in my nightstand and a good night's sleep. The case might be wrapped up, but that only means there is a file to update and close out in the morning.

Work. My refuge after Wilson, and still my refuge today, I think to myself, as I climb the stairs towards my bedroom. When all else fails, I can immerse myself in a case, and set aside all my other worries and concerns.

I freeze at the top of the stairs when the buzzer to the front door peels insistently.


	12. A New Dance

I give my head a hard shake, then laugh softly at myself. When the buzzer had sounded, I'd instantly flashed back to the memory of Carl standing in the open doorway, gun in hand. Still, I frown when I glance at the clock on my bedside table and see the time. I go back down the stairs and cross the living room, but find contrary to my normal behavior, I'm unable to blindly open that door to who-knows-who.

"Who is it?" I call out.

"It's me."

Mr. Steele? My brow furrows in concern. I dropped him off at the Rossmore less than a half hour ago. Had something happened? I step forward and pull open the door.

"Is everything alright?" I ask. He looks like hell, a rarity for my Mr. Steele who once proclaimed

* * *

 

" _ **Remington Steele never shows up wrinkled."**_

* * *

 

"Yes… No…" And with that, the man who could charm a snake with just his smile, is left floundering. My alarm only grows.

"Come in, come in," I urge him. After he steps inside, he stands rubbing his mouth with a hand as I slide the door closed behind him. Over the years, I have learned his hands are very expressive when it comes to his emotions. This particular movement means he's nervous, off-balance. "What is it? What's wrong?" I ask, laying a hand on his shoulder.

His eyes dart towards the stairway, linger there, then in a flash he steps to me, and pulls me into his embrace, his lips covering mine before I can even blink. I feel him tremble, briefly, against me, then his lips settle over mine in a kiss that leaves my heart thumping and my toes curling. When the tip of his tongue traces the outline of my lips I know what he's requesting, and as much I want to open my mouth, feel his tongue sliding inside to caress, to dance with my own, I have a more pressing need to know what is going on inside of that head of his. I manage to ease my hands between us and with palms flattened against his chest, put distance between us.

"What is it?" I ask. When he is this knotted up, it takes gentle finessing to relax him enough to talk. I reach up and rake a hand through the hair on the side of his head, cupping his head in hand when he leans into it. His eyes again move to the staircase, and then I know.

"Laura." There's an air of desperation to the way he says my name, and when he reaches for me again, I realize he, too, is trying to deal with the night's events. He steps to me again, and our lips barely meet when I pull away again.

"I'm alright, Mr. Steele," I assure him. "I don't even have so much as a hangnail," I joke, trying to lighten his mood. I fail miserably, as he steps away to pace, pulling a hand through his hair as he does so. I watch, cautiously, sensing an explosion is on the horizon. Still, I jump and my eye widen when it comes.

"Well, I'm not! I've never been so bloody…" I can feel his tension rising, as he stumbles over the words. "As enjoyable as this dance we've been doing the last year and a half has been, it's time we end the games, admit how we feel for one another and stop wasting precious time!"

I can only stare at him after his impassioned pronouncement, alternating between moving my lips only for no sound to emerge and mouth hanging slack-jawed. Admit how we feel? The thought is simultaneously awe-striking and terrifying. _He's_ pressing for the words? Mr. 'Can Offer No Guarantees'? He's breathing hard as he watches me in return, but my mind is humming and I can't find a word that will allow itself to be pushed past my lips. I expect him to storm out at my lack of response but instead, he steps to me, cupping my face in his hands and waits until I lift my eyes to meet his.

"I love you, Laura." He pauses, then only ups the ante further. "I'm not going anywhere," he vows. "I love you."

If I was rendered speechless before, now I am positively dumbstruck. He loves me. _He loves me?_ I am tempted to pinch myself. This can't be real, can it? My heart speeds up, as does my breathing. I search his eyes and find the truth there. Has it been there all along, and I've just been too caught up in my own fears to see? His hands urge my lips forward and up, and I step closer. This time when he begs entrance to my mouth, I open to him, then hum as his rich taste, the sensation of his tongue sweeping along mine overwhelms my senses. I bury a hand in his hair while my other hand clutches at his back. He ends the kiss, and our lips part ever so slightly.

"I need you, Laura," he whispers to me. I shiver at the admission. Not simply wants, but needs. I'm having a hard time concentrating as he cups my face in his hands again, and drops soft kisses on one eye, then the other. "Make love with me, Laura." My stomach does flip-flops at his choice of words, and then a jolt of pure desire races through me. His lips are on the move again, tracing my jaw, then trailing down my neck.

I wonder again, if this can possibly be real. I feel like I've waited a lifetime for this man, for these words, and knowing they are mine for the taking is surreal. I even question, briefly, if maybe I _was_ shot, and the rest of this night, like right now, is some sort of unconscious delusion. But then, he is talking again. He knows me better than anyone, understands my first instinct will be to question all that is happening.

"I love you," he repeats. "I'm _in love_ with you." His lips find mine again, and he tightens his arm around me, plastering my body against his. " _I need you_ , Laura," he reiterates, with a touch more desperation.

The proof of that need presses against my belly. I find the answers to my question in the way his lips linger on mine, the way his arm tightens further around my waist, in the gentleness of the fingers that stroke my cheek, my neck as he kisses me. But above all, I find my answer in the harsh rise and fall of his chest, and in how the fingers caressing me tremble.

And I finally believe. He loves me and I won't wake tomorrow and find him gone. My heart is so full that it aches, yet for the first time in more than a year it is at peace. I may have fallen in love with him unwillingly, but my heart knew what my head refused to believe: It's him. He's the one. He's…

Everything.

And just like that, all the reasons we couldn't be together disappear.

I ease my hands between us. I know what he's thinking in the way he ends the kiss, averts his face. Tonight, like so many nights before, I'm going to say we need to stop. I reach for the zipper of his leather jacket and tug it downwards, as he draws in a sharp, disbelieving breath. He looks down at my hands, staring at them as I ease the zipper all the way down, allowing his jacket to part. I hide nothing from him when my eyes meet his, and in my eyes he discovers need that matches his own.

Still, there is question that must be asked, as I can't imagine myself calling him 'Mr. Steele' during the intimate act were about to embark on.

"What do you want me to call you?" I feel the heat rise in my face. It's a question a woman might ask a man she picked up in a bar, not a man she's been involved with, on some level, for more than a year.

He is instantly on guard, shoving his hands in his pocket, rocking back on his heels and refusing to look at me. My first instinct is that despite his declarations, he still won't entrust me with this piece of himself. Then I really look at him, and realize he's not being cagey but seems… embarrassed. I have no idea what I was expecting but I know absolutely it's not the answer he gives.

"I don't know my name, Laura," he tells me, forcing the words, almost painfully, past his lips. "I don't know that I ever did. The only name I have to offer you, the only one I've ever cared to keep, is the one you gave me, then made me earn."

Anger burns white hot in my soul and I fervently damn to purgatory the people from his youth that never saw the damage they were doing to one small child. I say nothing, but wait until his eyes meet mine, where he will find not pity or condemnation, but compassion, understanding. As I wait, I slide my hands up his chest, then smooth his jacket over his shoulders. I see in his eyes the instant understanding dawns: I not only understood, but this night would happen. It is a test on his part when he reaches for my belt, and unbuckling it, drops it to the floor. When I don't back away, when my eyes continue to hold his, he steps near and kisses me again.

There is no more hesitation on either of our parts after that. His hands are on the move, tracing my silhouette, then caressing a cheek of my ass. When his hands begin to tug my shirt out from under the waist of my skirt, my own hands go on the move, first removing his cufflinks, and dropping them into his shirt pocket, then systematically releasing one button at a time on his shirt. When his hand makes contact with the bare skin of my waist, my gasp is consumed by his groan.

"Laura." My lips lift in a smile when he whispers my name against my lips, and I press up on my toes, my lips finding his again as I pull his shirt free. My heart races, yet some other part of me finds tranquility, when, at long last, I can touch him freely and I do so, without apology. I take my time, skimming my hands over his sides, then scrape my nails lightly over the dense hair on his chest, on his belly, finally settling back on his chest again. I get lost in the feel of him under my hands: a slim frame, covered in lean muscle, smooth skin and topped by dense, silken hair. I've dreamed countless times of being able to do this him, explore him at my leisure, and that it's finally happening?

It takes me long, long seconds to realize only one pair of lips, mine, are still actively kissing the other. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I move my head, rest my lips near his ear.

"Touch me, Remington," I whisper, before I'm again caught up in the overwhelming need to discover all the secrets of this man's body. I kiss and nip a trail down his neck.

His hands are shaking again, as he finally begins to release the buttons on my blouse, then removes my shirt and tosses it carelessly aside. His eyes slowly roam from my neck, over my shoulders, then sternum, finally gazing at my bra covered breasts. Seeing the gentle appreciation reflected in his eyes, I return my attention him. I bury my hands in the hair of his chest, before drawing my nails down lightly downwards and I lean forward to brush my lips over a nipple. I tilt my head back to look at him.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," I tell him, my hands still familiarizing themselves with the girth of his shoulders, the smooth skin over his collarbones, the breadth of his chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, then his sensitive stomach. I lean forward, again, this time drawing one of his nipples into my mouth.

"My God, Laura," he groans. He holds my head to him, while is other hand strokes my bottom. It's too much, and I squirm against him. It's not enough. I want all of him available to me. My hands reach for his belt, unbuckle it, then quickly release the clasp of his pants, and tug down his zipper. Somewhere along the line he's lost his shoes and socks, so when I shove his pants over his hips and they tumble to his ankles, he quickly kicks them aside.

He wraps his arms around me, his lips seeking and finding mine, caressing, kissing me with those kisses that make my heart race, blood pound and toes curl from the amazing gentleness of them. My hands are free though, and I use them wisely, stroking over his back, then gliding one downwards, where my hand caresses a firm cheek of his brief covered ass. I laugh quietly as I feel the cheek flex under my hand, and he openly groans against my lips.

"The bedroom," he pants. I couldn't have made a better suggestion myself, and begin to back towards the stairs, as we continue to kiss. I get my first hint of his skills when he manages to maintain the kiss as we walk, kiss and yet his hands still operate smoothly enough to release the clasp of my skirt, pull the zipper down. I kick away my heels, then my skirt, and by the time we reach the top of the stairs, he holds me still while he kneels down to remove my hose. My bra disappears somewhere between there and the bed. Before I can even compute how it happened, we are on my bed, and Remington is stretched out on top of me.

His eyes hold mine for several heartbeats before he bends his head and watches as he takes one of my breasts into his hand. My back arches. I want… I need more. He takes my body at its word, and lowers his head, lathing my nipple with his tongue, before drawing it into his mouth, suckling on it. It's too much and I cry out.

"Oh God!" Then as I exhale, I breathe his name. "Remington." I draw the fingers of both hands through his hair holding him to me.

He leaves me breathless, there is no other word for it, one minute languidly tracing my freckles with the tip of a finger, the next dusting kisses over my body, trailing his tongue over my skin, only in the next minute to prop himself up on an elbow, watching as he drags the back of two fingers down and over my ribs. It's a seduction beyond compare and goosebumps have covered my skin half a dozen times, before he finally eases my panties down over my hips. He brings me to climax the first time with his hands, as I lay on my stomach, and he showers my back, shoulders, and bottom with gentle caresses by hands and mouth. My body hasn't even stopped quaking, before he urges me to my back, and he begins anew. The second time, he sends me flying into the stars as he kneels between my legs, his lips and tongue easing me over the edge.

He seems content to continue on, but I have other ideas. I tug him upwards, then urge him to his back. He's had his turn with my body, now I want my turn with his. I lean down and kiss him, stroking his neck, his collarbones with my fingers as I do, then sit back up and closing my eyes, trace his arms, shoulders, and torso with my hands, memorizing his shape by touch alone. Then I do it a second time, only this time, my eyes are open, alert, committing to memory where, how, I am touching him each time his hips lift from the bed, a hand grabs pillows or sheet, or a moan is ripped from low in his throat. I eventually learn the softest of touches over his third and fourth ribs on the left, draw laughter from his lips; that the inside of his thighs are deliciously sensitive, and a nibble of a toe drives him mad. I take my time on his backside as well, making him twitch and squirm with my lips and tongue, then for long minutes calming his body again with a slow massage of his back. And if I'd believed a nip of a toe made him mad, nibbles and kisses laid against the bare skin of his bum leaves him calling my name and God's alternately.

By the time I turn him to his back and straddle him again, he reaches urgently for me. I allow him to draw me down, and we kiss at length before I sidle away again, easing myself backwards until I kneel between his legs. My eyes, seek, find his, as I slide my fingers underneath the elastic waistband of his briefs. With a shudder, his eyes close and I ease them down over his hips and away, my eyes hungrily watching as his erection springs free of the material. My mouth waters, and I yearn to feel him in my hand, to taste him. But when I grasp him for the first time, he growls, and pulls my hand away. In a split second, I find myself on my back and Remington reclining between my legs.

He's done playing.

And so am I. I circle my hips in hint.

"Ah, damn," he grouses, and turns his head away from me.

"What? What is it?" I ask, my brows drawing together when I see regret written all over his face. Oh, no. You have _got_ to be kidding me. He can't be suddenly having second thoughts. Can he? "Don't you dare tell me you've changed your mind." My thoughts slip past my lips, unplanned. He laughs, low in his throat as he toys with my hair.

"Not in a million years."

His wallet, and the condoms, are in his pants somewhere downstairs. Is that all?

"I'm on the pill, if that's alright by you," I volunteer. I watch as emotions collide on his face, in his eyes. Irritation mixed with… reluctance? He remains still, unspeaking, clearly giving the announcement a lot of thought. It takes me a hot minute, but I manage to decipher why he seemed chafed by the announcement, and that, in itself, tells me a lot about the women he once dated.

"I've been on it since I was sixteen," I expound. And that quickly, only a war with himself remains. I get the feeling that he's always insisted on wearing a condom before, and given his past, can I blame him? It takes a great deal of faith on my part, as well, given his… expansive history... not to insist on that added protection. But it's an expression of my trust in him not to. Now, I'm asking that he have the same faith in me. As my brain contemplates the matter at hand, he stirs.

"I trust you implicitly. You _know_ that." I nod my head, then he's shifting between my legs, as I thrust my hips towards him.

"Now, Remington," I insist. He leans down, teases my lips with his, as I feel him position himself at my entrance. He ends the kiss and takes each of my hands in his, then lowers his head, pressing his forehead against mine.

"I love you, Laura," he whispers, then presses his hips forward. I can't stop the gasp that passes my lips or my hands, that clench his, hard. He's long and thick, and it's been a very long time for me. I'm panting as I concentrate on making my body relax.

"Oh, God," I mumble, also unwittingly. I need a minute and he waits patiently, begins to worry.

"Should I—?"

"No," I answer quickly. No. He shouldn't. "No, stay," I reiterate. Finally, my muscles relax and I need more, more of him filling me, and I tell him so breathlessly. "More."

He moves back a little, then thrusts further inside me. My back arches, this time far more because of the feeling of him filling me than from any discomfort. He stills again, panting, and I suspect he's already close to the edge. I'd teased him, finessed his body, for a long time, after all. Our eyes meet and he leans down to kiss me. My hand streaks down his back, and he arches into my touch, driving him deeper within me.

"You feel so good." It seems my mouth has a mind of its own this evening, giving up my every thought in spite of myself. Maybe in part to distract him from my words, I wrap my legs around his hips then thrust my hips forward, taking all of him inside.

Soon, with more words shared between us, we're moving and our bodies quickly fall in sync. His body filling me, moving within me, his eyes upon me, quickly send me spiraling, and I don't even have time to catch my breath, before he shifts slightly. He's hitting that most sensitive of spots directly now, and he is bound and determined to make me climax again. This time, though, I've resolved to take him with me. I use my hands, my mouth, my lips, my tongue… every tool at my disposal to insure that will happen, and then I realize there is one, absolute truth that can make it a reality.

"I love you, too," I manage to say, as I battle against my impending orgasm. His body shudders beneath my hands, and his hips falter. Shifting again, he thrusts hard and deep three more times, then drops his head to groan my name against my neck as he goes rigidly still. I can feel the twitching of his shaft, a sudden warmth within me, and that, alone, is enough to make me climax again. As my muscles clench around him, by some miracle he begins to move again, prolonging my orgasm, until I finally collapse against the bed and he follows me.

I bear his weight upon me gladly, enjoying the feel of his sweat slicked skin beneath my hands, his hot breath tickling my neck. To soon, he shifts his hips, leaving me, then rolls us to lay on our sides, facing one another. I close my eyes, entranced by his need to touch me in the aftermath. His fingers toy with my hair, trace a cheek, tangle with my own, then leave to caress my neck. But he's no different than I, because my hands equally seek to keep him near, comfort him in the aftermath, stroking along a collarbone, down an arm, then taking a shortcut to his chest, where I weave my fingers in and out of the hair there. Soon, my touch falters, and I yawn. I lean forwards and touch a kiss to his lips, then settle myself against his chest, ease my leg between his and sleep.


	13. Game On

When I wake, shortly after six the following morning, I discover we've shifted positions as we slept, and I find myself spooned against Remington's body, his arm wrapped possessively around my waist, his fingers twined with mine. With a smile, I remove my hand from his and carefully wriggle around to face him. The movement is enough to partially rouse him, and his eyes blink open.

"Sleep, Laura," he orders, and I let him tug me closer, my leg slipping between his and my hand resting against his chest, as he wraps an arm around my waist again.

"Go back to sleep, Mr. Steele," I encourage. He's never been one for early mornings and we'd had a long, very busy night. He nods as he shuts his eyes, and is soon fast asleep again.

I want… need… some time to myself, as a cacophony of thoughts and emotions tumble about in head in heart.

My first instinct is to soundly berate myself, although for what I'm not sure. Because the promises I'd made myself that now lay in tatters at my feet? Could be.

My second instinct is to run, to hide away from him until I can sort out my rioting emotions, put last night into perspective… find a way to take a step back to the safety of the walls that once stood between us and now are obliterated.

But is that what I really want? I lay my fingertips on Remington's jaw, and watch him. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The fan of his dark lashes against his face. The slight spackling of freckles along his forehead and nose. That lock of hair that is forever rebelling against staying in place. His full lips slightly parted. The hint of a cleft in his chin.

As if he knows I'm watching him, his eyes blink open again.

"Sleep, Laura," he directs me again, then drops a kiss on my forehead and draws my head forward until it rests against his chest beneath his head. I nod my agreement, then lay at length in his embrace, my fingers toying with the matt of hair on his chest.

No, that's not what I want.

I've wanted him since our eyes first met across my office, when he appeared in my life at Ben Pierson. Initially, yes, just for his body, as I had never met a man whose looks alone had drawn such a visceral reaction from me. But that rapidly changed, and within weeks I had realized I wanted him as much for what I was discovering underneath the surface as I did for the surface itself. And, as time marched on, I understood, despairingly, what I really wanted him for was his heart.

A heart he'd laid in my hands last night, and, without ever saying the words, asked me to take care of.

No, I want him, all of him.

Which is a troublesome thought in and of itself.

I wait until I'm sure he's sleeping soundly, then carefully ease myself from his embrace. Shower. Coffee. In that order.

While I shower, I search my heart, forcing myself to set aside those broken vows to myself, my fears. I'm amazed what I find is left in the aftermath: happiness, contentment, peace. I can no longer deny this is what I want, no more so than I can deny there's something I need: the one thing never mentioned the night before.

I'm in the kitchen when I hear him stirring above stairs. The tea kettle is already whistling and I start him a cup of tea brewing as he's never been a fan of my coffee. Opening the refrigerator, I search its meager contents for something the eat, and his arms slips around my waist from behind as I'm considering the wisdom of a questionable carton of yogurt.

"Good morning, Miss Holt." A smile lifts my lips, and I reach back to caress his cheek with my fingertips.

"Good morning, Mr. Steele." There's something comforting in his choosing to use that particular name for me this morning, maybe simply because it allows me to call him by the name I always have before last night. _Remington_. I suspect it will take a while for the name to roll off my tongue with ease, given he's always been 'Mr. Steele' for me. My mind flashes back to his confession the evening before, and I have to forcibly shake it from my mind, lest I wish to become outraged, again, by all the wrongs done to him as a child – the theft of his own name perhaps the greatest. I return my focus to the carton of yogurt in my hand. "For some reason, I'm famished this morning." He laughs quietly while stretching his neck to see what I am holding in my hand.

"Can't imagine why. And unless your intent is to experiment with new forms of penicillin of the non-pill kind, I would suggest we put this where it belongs." The carton is whisked out of my hands and dropped into the garbage, and a mere second later I find myself sitting on the counter as he bends over to examine the contents of the fridge.

All-in-all not a bad way to start a morning, I smirk, as my eyes freely roam his shapely, jean clad ass. Mmmmm. Definitely not a bad way at all. I carefully school my expression when he stands, eggs, cheese and a pepper in hand, then watch as he retrieves bread, and pulls a pan out of the cabinet. In no time at all, he's pulled together the ingredient for omelets and sets to work.

"This should tide you over, for now at least. We can stop and pick up something a bit more substantial on the way to the office." I take a sip of my coffee before answering.

"Oh, I don't think we'll be doing that." Unbeknownst to him, I've called Mildred at home to inform her neither Mr. Steele nor I would be in today. Another smile tugs at my lips when he's distracted by my leg that's bared to slightly above my knee by the split in my robe. My Mr. Steele's a leg man. As much as his eyes might wander to appreciate a pair of large breasts, its legs that are his true weakness. Thank God. I know my legs are attractive, due in large part to dance and running, and I certainly can't compete where the former is concerned. He eyes return to my face.

"Oh, and why is that? An appointment I'm unaware of?" he asks, as he cracks a couple of eggs into a bowl.

"We've billed enough hours this week to pay the Agency's bills for a month, so I think we deserve the day off, don't you?" I smile openly at his double take. I've surprised him, pleasantly so, and I take satisfaction in that in the moments before he walks to the window and peers outside. I frown at his back, perplexed.

"What are _you doing_?!"

"No, no flying pigs," he teases as he returns to the kitchen. "And I'm fairly certain hell hasn't frozen over, elsewise it would be on the cover of today's paper." I can't help but laugh. His irrepressible good humor has always been a large part of my attraction for him, as much as it irritates me some days. "And Mildred?"

"I've already called and let her know we won't be in today." I recall what she said to me when we spoke. "She did say Julian Baron called first thing this morning to let us know those slides we requested would be delivered today by noon." His attention is suddenly fully focused on the eggs he is whipping, a silent admission he's done something I might be displeased with. So I press. "You wouldn't happen to know what slides he's speaking of, would you, _Mr. Steele_?" I try not to laugh as he busies himself looking for the chopping board, buying time, I know.

"I imagine he's referring to the pictures of the runway show." He's waiting for me to admonish him, and I decide it'll be more amusing to let him stew in his own sauce.

"I see." He shifts uncomfortably, not sure why a blistering retort never comes. Inwardly, I smile. Wisely, he decides he's better off not pursuing the reason for the free pass I've just offered him.

"Any idea what you'd like to do today?" he asks instead.

Oh, I have any number of ideas and nearly all of them involve far less clothing that we're wearing now.

"Oh, one… or maybe two ideas." It's too much of an opportunity not to take advantage of. I settle my eyes on his lips, then allow them to slowly roam over his neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, stopping only when my eyes land on the very obvious proof of his arousal. His tongue flicks out against his lips, and he sets down the knife before shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, his blue eyes looking at me intently.

"Is it really going to be this easy, Laura?" It's somewhat comforting to know I'm not the only one left a bit off-balance by this new phase of our relationship. "No questions about commitment? What my intentions are now? In the future?" Things have suddenly turned serious. I can either dodge the questions or face them head on. I choose the latter. Setting my coffee mug on the counter, I level him with an equally intense gaze.

"Alright, we can do that. Where do we stand, Remington?" Despite the fact he is the one who brought the topic up, he is suddenly nervous, pacing away from me, drawing a hand through his hair. I wait him out, because in all fairness I've had nearly an hour to work through those questions in my mind, while he's been awake less than fifteen minutes.

"Do you want to move in together. Do you want to get…" he forces the next word out "…married?" Helplessly, unplanned, I laugh.

Do I want to _get married?_ Hell, I don't even know if he's willing to consider monogamy. I've been calling him by his first name less than twelve hours. We have no idea how this furtherance of our personal relationship will affect our professional life. And if there's one thing that worse than being bedded and left, it has to be being wed and abandoned. I have no idea what his staying power is… or even what he wants it to be. God, no, I don't want to get married. Hell, after my disaster with Wilson, even the idea of living together has my feet itching to make tracks for the door.

"God no!" I blurt out. Apparently my inability to prevent my thoughts from crossing my lips has lingered into this morning. I grimace when I see I've offended him and deeply at that.

"My apologies, Miss Holt. I hadn't realized the idea of committing yourself long term to me was so off-" I'm shaking my head at him before he can finish.

"Don't do that," I tell him quietly. "You're no more prepared to get married than I am. As for living together? I'm not saying no, but it's not something I'm willing to just jump into either. I did that before, with Wilson, and look where it left me: with a white belt and a t-shirt that says 'Bankers do it with interest.' _If,_ we decide to move in together some day, it has to happen naturally. We can't force it simply because we _think_ now that we've crossed the line into bedroom, decisions about the future need to be made here and now." I'm relieved to find him nodding his head as I speak. That's another thing about my Mr. Steele: he's so quick to forgive my gaffes.

"So what is it you _do_ want?" he asks. It's a good question and one I've spent the morning dwelling on. There are two things I really need to feel secure in this relationship moving forward.

"I don't know," I hedge, worried those two things will be at least one too many. I force myself to forge ahead when it is clear he's waiting for more. "I'd want to know you're not seeing… sleeping… with anyone else, I suppose. I'd like your word if you decide this is not working out, I won't simply wake up one morning and find you gone."

By the time I'm finished, my skin is heated. I'm not used to being so open about my needs… or maybe I should say, as honest as I have just been. He sets down the knife in his hand and moves to me.

"Laura." He lifts my chin, then wait for my eyes to meet his. It's not an easy task, because I have no idea what's going on in that mind of his. "I haven't gone out with, let alone slept with, another woman since Creighton Phillips and Sheila Taplinger stormed and slinked through our lives. You and I have lived in one another's pockets since, if you hadn't noticed. That's not going to change."

"Alright," I answer, unintentionally drawing out the word, bringing an amused gleam to his eyes.

Well, what does he expect? Of the extensive list of possible responses that I'd formulate in my mind, that one had never occurred to me… not even remotely. Celibate? For more than a year? Him? The man who had paraded a dozen different women through the office in the first several weeks he was with the Agency? I've always assumed he's been getting his… needs… met elsewhere. Yet, try as I might, I can't recall a single woman calling the office, coming by or stopping by his place since the Shapiro case. I thought he was simply being discrete, but the more I think about it, he's right. We have, more or less, lived in one another's pockets since. Still, I am having a hard time wrapping my head around this news, and I don't know if now's the time to try. Thankfully, he gives me an out when he speaks again.

"As for the last? _I'm not going anywhere_." He makes it a point to emphasize each word. "But I give you my word: you'll never wake and find me simply gone." I feel an ominous tickle behind my eyes at this promise, for he's just quelled my greatest fear. I've already lived through finding someone just suddenly gone, twice now at that, and I don't think I have it in me to do it again.

Well in for a penny, in for a pound.

"What do you want?" I ask, in turn. "I can't imagine there isn't something." He gives his lack of attire an exaggerated look.

"Clothes would be a nice start."

"I'm sure I can make room in my closet for a few of your things," I agree, laughing. "What else?"

"Time, Laura. Time for us. When we don't wish to tell one another goodnight, we don't… no matter if we have to work in the morning or if a case might pull us away. And I don't mean simply making love. I mean presence. I want you present when I go to sleep at night, when I wake in the morning, more often than not."

Another completely unexpected response from him, that leaves me scrambling. My mind flashes back to something he said to me in Acapulco.

* * *

 

_**"You think it's any different for me? I mean, I've never spent this much time in one place in my entire life… and it's not only because I enjoy playing detective. I mean, sometimes…** _ _ **sometimes** _ _**… I look at myself and I say, 'What's happened to you, old sport? I mean, you've become positively domesticated'."** _

* * *

 

Domesticated? Him? It's a word I've never even thought to associate with my Mr. Steele. Yet, the more I think on it, how many countless nights I have we spent doing nothing more than watching a movie at his place, or laying before the fire and talking? I guess I've never really given it much thought, but I suppose for a man who once traveled the world at whim and will, who would partake of the nightlife until the early morning hours, he's become exactly that. Domesticated. Another complicated thought to mull, but not now.

Right now, I need to be sure that we're clear on one very important point.

"But if a case calls, we leave."

"Same as we do now, except we'd depart from one address instead of two," he confirms with a nod.

"I want time with you, as well." Ugh. There goes my mouth again, and I blush at the forthright admission.

Yet, if the way he's suddenly kissing me is any indication, that unintentional confession was well worth a little discomfort.

In an instant, my body flares to life, as memories of him touching me, kissing me, moving over me, in me, come crashing down around me. He pulls me closer, and I am only too happy to cooperate, my hands grasping his hips, trying to move him even closer.

"Remington," I hum against his lips. "Breakfast can wait." And lunch can, too, for that matter, as far as I'm concerned.

I've never been one to wax poetic about sex. Enjoy it? Yes, I do, despite the evidence since Wilson left that might indicate otherwise. But the sex last night was breathtaking… phenomenal… and I wonder if it is isolated to that first time, or if it will always be as mind blowing. And given I'm a woman who cannot stand letting a mystery remain unsolved, I'm fully committed to discovering the answer to that, preferably sooner than later.

"Enjoyed yourself last night, hmmm?" he asks, a bit to smugly for my taste, as his hand tugs on the sash of my robe, loosening it until my robe billows open.

"It was… nice," I assess. I'll be damned if I'll admit to him it was the best sex I've ever had. I have to squelch my laughter when he leans back, giving me a thoroughly affronted look.

"Nice?" He lifts a brow at me. "Laura, last night wasn't _nice_. It was ground moving, earth shaking, life alter—"

I sigh, dramatically, and roll my eyes, refusing to relinquish control of the game I've now begun.

"Alright. It was… fine." I purse my lips as though giving it further thought, then reaffirm my assessment. "Perfectly… fine."

"A challenge, Miss Holt? You know I'm a man who enjoys the impossible challenge," he grins at me.

"I suppose we'll find out if you can rise to the occasion." I pretend to be unimpressed, feigning interest in my nails, flicking them.

A miscalculation? I'm not sure when I suddenly find myself tossed over his shoulder, as he walks resolutely towards my bedroom. I struggle to get down, but he and I both know he can overpower me when he so chooses. I can't help the laughter that makes it way past my lips.

"Remington, put me down," I insist, although the laughter undermines any attempt at sounding authoritative.

He does… eventually… Tossing me on the bed, then following behind me, and stretching his lean length out over top of me. He fingers back the hair that's strayed over my face. He's suddenly serious, and, in turn, so am I.

"I do love you," he tells me, quietly. And there it is again, that look in his eyes that confirms he does exactly that. How long have I written it off to something else, I wonder? My fingers find his hair as I nod my head.

"I love you, too."

I let him savor the words for long seconds, then dig my fingers between his ribs, making him laugh as he jerks away from my touch.

"You'll be paying for that, Miss Holt," he threatens, but not before I've managed to land him on his back and straddle his hips. I raise my brows at him in answer.

"Those are mighty bold words, _Mr. Steele_ ," I point out, "Given the position you're in at the moment, don't you think?"

Quick as a cat, he folds himself up and over me, and I barely manage to roll out beneath him before he's stretched out on top of me again. But I do, and he's left to land face-first into the sheets. Just as I'm about to declare myself the victor, he hauls himself up into a sitting position and before I can flee, he's snatched me around the waist and hauled me into his lap. I'm mindless of the fact that my robe is hanging off my shoulders, my body laid bare before him.

"Going somewhere, Miss Holt?" he asks, one arm holding me firm around the waist, as he palms a breast and brushes his thumb over the tip of my nipple. White hot desire ripples through me, and I gasp. Still, I manage to tilt my head, and give him a thoughtful look.

"Exactly the opposite, I hope," I answer, knowing he'll have no choice but to ask…

He frowns at me, perplexed.

"Care to explain?" he queries. I lean forward and press my lips against his neck on the right.

"Going…" I press my lips to the other side of his neck, as I scrape my nails lightly down his back. "Coming…" He barks a sharp, shocked laugh at a remark such as that, so thoroughly unexpected from me, but to his credit he sobers quickly.

"Well," he eases a hand between my legs, and finding me already wet, gently slides a finger inside of me, "There's something to be said for both coming," he presses inward, " _And going,"_ then slides is back, "As well, don't you think?" My body trembles at his touch. Cupping the back of his neck, I draw his lips to mine.

"I guess we'll see," I answer.

As his lips meet mine, I can't help but to marvel at that fact that not even twenty-four hours ago, we were still dancing around one another, yet here, today, we're about to engage in the oldest of dances… together. I have no idea what the future holds for us, but if it's anything like the last fifteen months have been…

I'm game.


End file.
